


Weary World Rejoicing

by helsinkibaby



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Het, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-23
Updated: 2003-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:52:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ainsley thinks back over Christmases past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weary World Rejoicing

**Author's Note:**

> (From 2002)  
> Once upon a time, there was a fanfic writer who had certain uncon tendancies. She wrote a series of stories about the growing relationship between Leo and Ainsley entitled "Stolen Moments". When she was finished that, people asked her to write more, and though she fought against it, verily the plot bunnies did come a calling, and she wrote another series called "Inside the Tornado" which carried on the story. At the end of this series, when the plot bunnies once more came a calling, she successfully managed to fight them off, all but one, which is the one you see below you. You don't have to have read either series to make sense of this, but it probably would help. For those of you who wondered how Leo and Ainsley were getting on after the events of Posse Comitatus, this might answer your questions.

Most of the denizens of the West Wing have already left for the night as I make my way through the halls, and those who are left, I have no doubt, are in the lobby, listening to the Whiffenpoofs singing. I will admit to having left my office several times today on the merest of pretexts, taking whatever route to my destination that would bring me near to the Mural Room and their singing, even if my destination was nowhere near the Mural Room. Nor do I think that I was the only one doing so. 

My route at the moment however, doesn't take me to where the Whiffenpoofs are singing, though I can hear them from here. Instead, I'm making my way to the Communications Bullpen, fulfilling a promise that I made to a friend. The bullpen is all but deserted right now, though the light is on in what once was Sam's office and is now supposed to be empty. 

It's anything but however. 

No-one is, at present, occupying said office, yet there seem to be an inordinate amount of bicycles cluttering up the place, resting on every available perch. Not only that, but someone has seen fit to plaster the walls with Seaborn for Congress posters, with the result that as I enter the room, the faces of several larger than life Sam Seaborns look down at me. A smile comes to my face as I wonder who might have done this, my next thought being to wonder how the hell Sam got his eyes to look that blue in those posters. Surely I would have noticed if they were that shade in real life?

As I'm pondering that particular fact, a voice comes from behind me. "May I help you?"

I jump slightly, whirling around to see a man standing there in shirtsleeves and slightly loosened tie, holding a cup of coffee. His glasses are slightly askew, his hair looks as if he's spent the last few hours running his hand through it, and he's got this vaguely harried air about him that I recognise from the previous occupant of this office. 

Even if I wasn't pretty sure already that this was Will Bailey, the fact that he looks like a guy who's drowning in re-writes of a Presidential speech would do tip me off. 

"Hi," I say to him, giving him my best smile, which usually gets at least a smile back from any man. Hey, I'm blonde, Southern and sassy, my smile gets results. Not from him though; instead I get a nod of open suspicion. 

"Hi." His tone is flat, and he doesn’t move. 

"I'm Ainsley Hayes," I tell him, still smiling, putting out my hand to allow him to shake it. "I'm a Deputy White House Counsel."

He nods, taking my hand. "Will Bailey," he says. "Are you here to talk about the notes on the speech? Because if you are, I've got some ideas-"

He's moving towards his desk, which is littered with paper, and I shake my head, holding up my hands to forestall any further comments. "Oh no, nothing like that. I was just on my way home, and I thought I'd stop by." The look of suspicion is back as he looks up at me, putting the coffee on the desk without paying any real attention to it. It sloshes over some of the pages and he looks down in disgust, then back up at me. 

"You thought you'd stop by." 

I can't blame him for being suspicious of me; after all, the message left by the bikes is fairly easy to interpret. Nonetheless, I have a sudden wicked urge to see if I can get him to at least crack a smile, so I ask him, "You like cycling?" My eyes dart pointedly around at the bikes, and when I look back at him, he's looking impatiently at me. 

"Not so much," he replies, sitting down, staring up at me. "Though I do have an interest in Seaborn for Congress." He waves at the posters behind me, and I feel a small smile coming to my face. A glimpse of humanity through a veil of suspicion. So this is what it's like to be on the other side of that particular wall. 

"This I know," I tell him, perching myself on the arm of the chair opposite his. "That's why I'm here actually...I was talking to Sam earlier on, he asked me to look you up, say hello."

He perks up at the mention of Sam's name. "Did he say how the campaign was doing?"

I hesitate for a second, because Sam said many things about the campaign, and many of them were in language that I absolutely refuse to use. My dear sweet Gramma, may she rest in peace, would be horrified. "He said that he's fighting with…is it Scott?" A nod confirms the name, and I continue, "On a more or less hourly basis, and that he wishes you were still out there."

Will rolls his eyes. "He's not the only one," he says dryly, and I'm not sure if he's referring to himself, the rest of the West Wing staff or both. 

"Is it that bad?" I ask him, because I certainly know how bad things can be when you come into the West Wing as an outsider. Lone Republican in the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue anyone? 

"See for yourself," he replies, gesturing around the office with one arm. "I’m beginning to wonder what Sam got me into."

"It does get better," I tell him, and he gives me a look that fairly screams his disbelief. "When I started here," I tell him, "I had just appeared on Capitol Beat, where I kicked Sam's ass from one end of the studio to the other. I'm a Republican, I disagreed with large tracts of this Administration's policies, and still do by the way, and a few months earlier, I'd written an op-ed piece declaring that Leo McGarry was unfit to be Chief of Staff and should resign immediately." I actually said a damn sight more than that, which I leave out. 

Will eyes grew progressively wider as I spoke, and I can see that he's having trouble believing me. "And they hired you?" he wonders, and I shrug. 

"Boggles the mind huh?" I say breezily, remembering how well and truly stunned I was. After my initial interview, I remember walking around town in a daze, unable to believe what had just happened. At the time, I was shocked, yes, but now I look back at the memory and smile, because it was the first time that I met Leo. "I still remember what Leo said to me when he offered me the job. 'The President likes smart people who disagree with him. He wants to hear-' What?" I cut myself off mid-quote, most unusual for me, because he winced when I said that. 

"Nothing," he says, and I frown. 

"It must be something," I point out, and he considers his reply for a second. 

"The President and Toby gave me some notes on this section of the Inaugural. Three notes, one of them was a bad note." I frown, not quite understanding, and he continues, "A bad idea, purposely put there to see how I'd do telling truth to power."

"Presidential lockjaw?" I guess, and he rolls his eyes, leaning back on his chair. 

"I wish. First of all, I got to the Oval Office, where Charlie - it is Charlie isn't it?" I nod. "Charlie told me that Toby, who was supposed to be going to the meeting, wasn't, in fact. I told him that I'd come back later, because no way was I going into the Oval Office on my own; I'm already uncomfortable enough being here, way over the Holy Line of Demarcation without that. Except that the President came out and Charlie told him who I was."

He pauses then, as if he can't bear to think about what happened next. I wait patiently, knowing there's no point in rushing him. 

"My exact response, on being asked by the President of the United States, into the Oval Office was, 'No, no,no,no,no." Then I couldn't remember his name. I went through Mr Justice, then Mr Bartlet before I finally remembered that his title was Mr President." He's flushing bright red as we speak, clearly mortified. "Charlie said he's never seen a worse first encounter." 

I'm smiling, but not at him. "I have," I tell him, and his head lifts up, clearly interested. 

"Really?" He even sounds hopeful. "Whose?"

"Mine." I'm remarkably sanguine about it now; almost two years have passed and I can laugh at myself. "It was after the State of the Union two years ago. Capitol Beat were broadcasting from the West Wing. I was on one of the panels, and I mentioned, live on air, that I'd never met the President. Turns out that Sam was watching, and decided that we had to do something about that. I, like you, tried to get out of it, told him that I didn't want to meet the President, that I would be mortified, that I would make a fool of myself, and I thought I'd convinced him of that fact. However, it's hard to talk Sam out of something when he's convinced that he's right."

I close my eyes for a second, hardly able to believe that, while I can talk about it, I'm really sharing this, my most mortifying moment, with a man I met only a few minutes ago. "After appearing on Capitol Beat, I was pretty pleased with myself, so I went to the bar, had myself a drink, and went out to the Sculpture Garden. Where they had just been painting. In January, but whatever. And I sat in wet paint. Naturally, I couldn't walk around in clothes like that, so I had someone run to my apartment to get me a change of clothes, while I changed, temporarily, into a bathrobe from the women's locker room."

My pause for breath lets him jump in. "They have bathrobes in the women's locker room?"

"Yes. So I was waiting in my office, which was in the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue, which to you is the deepest bowels of the basement, where no-ones goes. I think it may be marked with 'Here Be Dragons' on the floor plans. Anyhow, no-one ever came down there, so I thought I was safe enough turning on some music…and I was a little tipsy, I will admit…so I was doing a little dancing, and that's when Sam came in. He just happened to be there, thought the whole thing was mildly amusing, me trying to get him to dance to _Blame it on the Bossa Nova_. It got even more amusing when I looked over his shoulder and saw the President standing there."

I pause for dramatic effect, and his mouth falls open. "You're kidding me," is all he says, and I give him a withering look. 

"Yes, because this is just the kind of thing that I would joke about."

"What happened?"

Every embarrassing second is etched on my memory. "I screamed and threw my drink across the room." Will tries, with not much success, to stifle a guffaw of laughter, and I give him a second before I continue. "He said that he didn't know we had a night-club down here. I, for once in my life, could not articulate a coherent sentence, so Sam introduced us. At which point the President told me that he just wanted to say hello, and told me that a lot of people assumed that I was hired because I was a blonde Republican sex kitten, but that they were wrong and I should keep up the good work." 

Will looks as if he doesn't know whether he wants to burst out laughing or ask me if I'm having him on. He settles for something in between. "The _President_ said-"

"Oh, I found out later that that little quote was from Sam. He'd said it when he talked the President into dropping down to see me. This, by the way, is the man you want to get elected to Congress," I remind him. 

"Wow," Will murmurs, whether about the meeting or Sam I'm not sure. "You're right. That's worse than my story."

"Oh but I'm not finished." In for a penny, in for a pound and all that. 

"You mean there's more?" 

"The next morning, having recovered some, not all, of my dignity, but an awful lot of my righteous indignation, I approached Sam and told him that this was all his fault and that he had an obligation to help me fix it. So he said that he'd fix up another meeting for me. However, my nerve only lasted until the time of the meeting, by which time I was worse than ever, seized by an uncontrollable urge to visit the bathroom at regular intervals. The meeting was in Leo's office, and I needed to use the restroom. Unfortunately, I mistook the door to his closet for such a door, and of course, that was when the President chose to make his entrance."

"While you were-"

"I believe his exact words were, 'They won't let me smoke inside but you can pee in Leo's closet.'" I give him my most serious nod, the whole thing said with a perfectly straight face.

That does it. He gives a second or two of pause, then he throws his head back and roars with laughter. It's rather infectious and before I know it, I'm laughing right along with him. I don't know how long we stay like that, but he sobers up first, wiping at his eyes and taking deep breaths. "OK," he finally decides. "You definitely win."

"I’m glad I could be of some service," I tell him, reining in my own merriment. "I do have a point to telling you this though. I made a fool of myself in front of him, he knew that I disagreed with large tracts of his platform. And he still took the time to shake my hand, to tell me that he appreciated me coming to work for him. Right then and there, I forgot about everything else…all the other stuff. President Bartlet is a good man, and I'm honoured to work here."

Will is nodding slowly. "Yeah," he says. "I am too."

"There's something else Leo said to me when I started working here," I tell him. "'Don't worry about Sam or Josh and Toby or CJ or the other Democrats on the hill or Republicans on television. You're here to serve the President.'" I shrug my shoulders, standing up. "Don't worry about the posters, or the bicycles, or Presidential lockjaw. Just be Will Bailey. That's what got you here." He doesn't say anything, just nods slowly. "Anyway," I say. "I should get going."

"Yeah," he says, looking at his paper-strewn desk, his now lukewarm coffee. "I've got some stuff to do here…" He looks up at me again then, and I can see something warm in his eyes, something that wasn't there when I walked into the room. "Ainsley? Thanks for the chat."

I give him a grin and a cheery wave, getting to the door before I remember something else that Leo said to me that day. "Oh Will?" I ask, turning and leaning against the frame, waiting until he looks at me again before I speak. "Welcome to the White House." 

His smile is the only response I get as I walk of the room, making my way through the bullpen and out into the halls, beginning to make my way to another office, another man that I need to talk to. Suddenly my mind flies back two years, to when I was in Will's shoes, brand new to the White House and feeling totally and completely out of my depth. At that stage, I didn’t have very many friends in the White House. There was Sam, of course, and Leo, and Mrs Landingham was always very good to me. In fact, this time two years ago I was at home, making Christmas cookies so that I could bring her in some. It's funny how things can change in two years. 

Sam's in California, campaigning for Congress.

Mrs Landingham isn't with us anymore. 

And Leo… well, Leo is something else altogether. 

This time two years ago, he was my friend, someone I would have coffee and dessert with late at night every now and again. I didn't expect it to lead to anything when I visited him in his office on Christmas Eve, to give him a box of cookies. I didn't expect to invite him to come with me to the carol service in my local church that night, and of course, though I didn't know it at the time, that was the start of us. 

Last Christmas, this day last year in fact, isn't my most favourite time to remember. At the time, I knew it was bad; after all, Leo was testifying in front of Congress, and he came home to me that night looking as if he'd been put through the mill. I held him and he told me everything, all about what Gibson had on him, and we slept in one another's arms that night. The next morning, Christmas Eve, I went home to North Carolina, to the bosom of my family for Christmas, and I cried most of the way there. All I wanted was to be with Leo. 

While I missed him, while I was worried about him, I still thought that he'd be all right, that we'd be all right. I wasn't to know that he was battling some kind of attraction to Jordan Kendall, wasn't to know that he went out for dinner with her on Christmas Eve. Nothing happened, he swore that to me later when I did find out, and I believed him. I still do. But I couldn't deal with the fact that he'd even been attracted to her, the fact that he'd actually gone to dinner with her was even worse, and I threw him out of my apartment, even as he tried to explain himself to me. 

It took a long time for me to get over that, to realise that no matter what had happened, I loved him and I didn't want to lose him. And once I'd told him that, it took even longer to get back to where we were. It wasn't easy, but we did it, and now here we are, celebrating another Christmas together.

If, that is, I can ever get him out of this White House. 

When I get to his office, Margaret isn't outside, and I'm willing to bet that he's sent her home for the night. Despite her "I go home when you go home" stance, it is Christmas, it is late, and the weather is pretty bad out there. The door is slightly ajar, and I rap on it softly, pushing it open and leaning against the frame. He's on the phone, listening intently, and my heart sinks for a second when I see the look on his face. That is not a happy face, not the face of a man who thinks he's going to be leaving here to snuggle on the couch with the lady in his life any time soon. His eyes flicker over to me, and I can see a brief smile in them as he motions me in. 

I don't take my eyes off him as I sashay over to the seat opposite him, dropping into it gracefully, remembering the first time I ever sat here, when I was so terrified of being called to the White House over my performance on Capitol Beat. The phone call ends abruptly, the receiver fairly crashing down into the cradle, but he still manages to fashion some kind of smile as he looks at me. "Sorry," he says. 

"Don't worry about it." I dismiss his apology with a wave of my hand, after all, I'm used to this. "You about done here?"

With a look of what I'm sure is regret on his face, he shakes his head. "There's a thing… Israel has closed the Church of the Nativity. Can you believe that?"

I blink. "It's certainly ironic," I say, and he chuckles. 

"You sound like Josh," he notes wryly and I raise my eyebrows in affected surprise. 

"I'm sure Josh would be thrilled to hear that," I reply, and he chuckles again. "Why are they closing it?"

"They're afraid the roof will fall in," he says and I frown, not understanding if he's speaking literally or metaphorically. "The church is apparently in a state of disrepair and to fix it, they're going to need hammers and nails for starters and they won't be let bring those in…" He throws up his hand in disgust. "What a mess."

"It certainly appears that way," I murmur. "So what are you trying to do?"

He shrugs. "Trying to find a way to fix the roof," he says. "Josh is still here, we're both making some calls, seeing what we can do…" He breaks off, looking over the amount of paperwork on his desk. "I'm sorry, I know we said we'd get dinner, but it looks like I'm going to be here for a while…" Again, I wave my hand, and he sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Anyone else still around?"

I nod, grinning at the memory of my conversation with Will. "Sam called me earlier," I say, hoping against hope that he's not going to have a nutty over that. For some inexplicable reason, he always did have a bee in his bonnet about Sam and me, and it didn't help when, during our break-up, I actually agreed to go, but never went, on a date with Sam. "He asked me to drop in on Will, tell him that he said hi, and happy Christmas, so I went and introduced myself."

Leo raises an eyebrow at that. "He's still here?"

"Yes indeed, working on the speech," I tell him. "He seems nice."

"He froze up in the Oval Office," Leo notes, and I duck my head, a blush and a wry smile coming to my face. 

"Yes, he did mention that."

"He did?"

I look up at him through my eyelashes. "We traded embarrassing first Presidential meeting stories," I admit, and in a second, his face lights up in that crooked smile that I've come to love so. 

" _Blame it on the Bossa Nova_?" he asks, and I nod. 

"Also your closet," I confess, making his shoulders shake with laughter. "Somehow I don't think he quite knew what to make of me."

"There's a lot of that going around," Leo informs me, and while I might take offence at a comment like that ordinarily, there's a soft smile on his lips and a loving look in his eyes that makes my heart quicken its pace just a little. There are so many ways in which I would like to respond to that look, and none of them are appropriate for this office. 

"Can we get out of here?" I ask softly, with a look on my face that I'm sure screams my attentions far more loudly than I might have wished, and while, for a second, he looks as he's considering it, he then casts his eyes to the papers on his desk, and to the phone. 

"I wish I could," he sighs, and I hear the sincerity in his voice. "But I've got to make these calls…" He shakes his head. "You go on home…I'll be as quick as I can."

I lift an eyebrow, because I've heard that one before and I know better. He's not going to quit until he gets what he wants, and since what he wants is nigh on impossible, he could be here a while. "This really matters to you, doesn't it?" I ask, just to make sure, and he hesitates for a moment before he sets his jaw and nods. "You're a good man Leo McGarry," I whisper, words I've used to him in the past. 

This time however, his face darkens. "Am I?"

Somehow, I know what he's thinking about, and it's not about us and the past, or fixing the roof of a church in Bethlehem. He's thinking about a plane in Bermuda and the events of last May, knowing that while he did what he had to do and that he'd do it again, it doesn't make it any easier to live with. He kept that to himself for nearly four months, as I watched him, knowing that there was something eating away at him, unable to ask what, knowing only that he'd tell me when the time was right. He proved me right on that, and I could see the fear in his eyes as he talked, the worry that this would prove a bridge too far for us. 

I do now what I did then, stand up from my chair, walk around the desk so that I'm standing beside him. He turns in his chair so that he can look up at me, and I take his hand in mine, bringing it up to my lips, kissing it quickly. "Yes," I tell him, never taking my eyes from his. "You are." 

The framed "Bartlet for America" napkin is beside us, and he glances over at it, shaking his head. "I talked to Josh earlier," he whispers, looking back to me. "Told him that we'd been here four years, and that some things were worse and that some were exactly the same. Asked him where we were supposed to begin. You know what he said?"

I take a wild guess, based on what he said to me a few minutes ago. "By fixing the roof?"

He nods. "By fixing the roof." He sighs. "I'm just not sure it's going to be enough." 

"It's all you can do Leo," I tell him, one of my hands still holding his, the other going to cup his cheek before I bend down to press a kiss against his forehead. His arms slip around my waist, holding me there for a long moment before his grip loosens and I step away, heading for his couch. "Mind if I stay for a little while? Wait for you here?" 

I think he suspects that he's not going to get much say in the matter, because I'm already kicking off my shoes, making myself comfortable, and he smiles over at me, waiting until I'm stretched out on the couch before he speaks. "No. I don't mind that at all." 

Our eyes meet again and we smile, before he turns back to his phone calls and I close my eyes, letting the sound of his voice lull me into a doze. Lord alone knows how long he's going to be, but for the moment, I’m not letting myself worry about that. I'm thinking about how far we've come in a few years, how much things have changed between us in such a short space of time. How I'm happier than I've ever been, lying here on a couch in the West Wing of the White House, listening to the man I love try to fix a roof. 

It might not be everyone's idea of a perfect evening, of a perfect Christmas. But it's more than enough for me. 


End file.
